


Don't Leave Me Alone

by edgelord666



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Autistic Will Graham, CG/L, CGLRE, CPTSD, Childhood Trauma, Echolalia, Hannibal is a good guy and he's worried, He's going through a lot ok he needs help, M/M, Neglect, Non-Sexual Age Play, Non-Sexual Age Regression, Other, Out of Character Hannibal Lecter, Panic Attacks, Possible Nonverbal Will (later on), Stimming, Will Graham age regresses and it isn't on purpose (at first), agere, asd, for now it's just all blurry bc trauma b like that, he just, idk - Freeform, kind of, will go more in depth with his childhood later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-07 13:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19210354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgelord666/pseuds/edgelord666
Summary: In which Will Graham (apparent victim of neglect) calls Hannibal as he starts to slip into a panicked state of age regression, terrified of being alone. He gets taken care of and looked after, eventually. For now, Hannibal must find out what's ailing his boyo.Eventual hannigram, intending to be a slowburn. Strap in fellas.





	1. Chapter 1

“Hannibal I-I just feel-” Will raises his free hand up, kneading a shaking palm into his burning eyes, tears threatening to spill over. Each word is strained, paused between one another, as if fighting to get back down his bobbing throat.

“I feel. . . I feel like-” he inhales sharply, bidding his heart to slow for a moment, “-like I am slipping.” 

His voice catches, breaks as he continues softly, lips trembling against the receiver of the old phone.  
The words echo against the walls in his beautiful, lonely little cabin in the middle of nowhere. 

“Like I'm slipping far down into the depths of my own memory. And Hannibal, it’s a dark, murky place. It’s so- it’s so difficult to- I don’t know, I don’t.

I can't navigate it; I get stuck somehow, I can’t-” 

He likens the sound to the ringing in his ears, an alarm from the far past. 

“It- it’s becoming- It’s getting harder to speak and-” a soft cry shudders through him, making Will to drop his shaking body onto the wooden floor, knees knocking against each other from the uncertainty of movement. He feels so extremely small, so unsafe, so alone- He grips the phone as tightly as he can, bringing his knees up to his chest and burying his head, muffling his words from the startled psychiatrist on the other end.

Ordinarily, one would start with a ‘Hello’ on a phone call, or an apology for intruding this late at night. But to pick up the phone and be greeted with a string of mangled conversation, unwarranted? Well, he supposes they're both diving straight into this ‘murky place’ now. 

“I can’t - I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry I can’t-” his words seem more of pleas, inflection rising in pitch on every broken ‘sorry.’ Of what he is pleading Hannibal is unsure. He sounds so scared. 

“I-I can't, I can’t drive- I can’t drive, I'm forgetting. I can’t drive I’m forgetting how.” Will says, hoping his doctor will understand what he meant. 

After a moment of silent deliberation, and sleepy confusion on the older mans end, The jingling of metal keys can be heard from the receiver, as well as the movement of fabric against his skin.

“I’ll be there in one hour, William. Stay right where you and remember to breathe.” Hannibal orders, voice steady and gentle. 

He hears Will’s breath hitch on the other line, the younger man thinking he now means to hang up on their call. 

The thought alone of being abandoned is too much, shooting lightning bolts of panic down his spine. He begins to rock in place, no doubt distinguishable to his friend by the sway and friction of his layered attire, coupled with the creaking wooden floor beneath him. He sucks in another shaky breath. The pendulum behind his eyes is swinging, creaking, recreating scenes of a childhood nearly lost. 

A moment of horrid silence - Will is in a rotten house. The smell of mildew invades his senses, peeling white wallpaper is all around him. There are bugs under the paper, but they feel more under his skin. Will feels his body shrink, and everything is giant, everything is a threat, everything is a threat - 

“Will, can you hear me? Can you tell me where you are?”

The erratic movement continues, thrusting flashes of unwanted scenes into the empath’s mind. Will is propelled into the state of mind of the memories, propelled into being alone. 

The phone's words seem foreign, his friends voice muffled as if sifting through pools of water and reverberation to reach his ears. 

“Can you tell me your name, your age?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t know. My name is Will, it’s Will. I don’t know the rest.” 

Hannibal quickly comes from his bedroom, speed walking past his kitchen -stopping to grab an orange, his patient likely hasn’t eaten- and breaking into a near run for the door.

Another moment passes, Will is on a dock overlooking a large lake. Another, he is in a car. The seat’s scorching leather he can smell in the summer heat, he can feel under his palms. It feels like he is suffocating. 

These barely-there memories come in flashes; sometimes they are scenes, sometimes only a feeling. They burn his throat from the inside out. 

‘No.  
no. no. no. no. no. no. no. no. no. no. no.’ His thoughts slow to one word. He feels so small. So, so small. He’s sobbing even more, without a care to how the doctor will hear. He won’t be able to talk soon, he doesn't feel.

“I’m on my way. Try to remain calm, and do not attempt to leave the house for the time being. I do not want you in dangers way.” 

Hannibal is now slamming his car door while rapidly pushing the keys into the ignition in a hurried attempt to get out of his driveway. 

 

Having been the consulting agents psychiatrist -and he hopes by the man's own account, his friend- Hannibal is very much aware of Will’s unstable habits. He knows his ticks, tone fluctuations, patterns of speech, and other cues as they relate to the causes of distress. 

If Will is carefully picking his words, he is afraid of being seen as out of control. Therefore, he has already lost it. If his darling boy is being open with his thoughts? Then he is so comfortable in his skin that impulsivity is of no concern; that betrayal of such information seems no longer imminent. 

If he is on Hannibal's doorstep, in his office unannounced, looking at the expensive aesthetical designs all around him, then he feels alone. Regardless of if he claims to have arrived to discuss his newfound companionships. 

But if his precious, intelligent, ocean-eyed project is falling onto the floor of his own home, unable to speak at all, crying for a friend to come help him? 

“I need you to breathe, do this for me.” Hannibal demonstrates, dramatizing his steady breath into the phone. 

He is at a loss for what else would work, what else he should say. Best to fall back on the things he knows.

“Your parasympathetic nervous system is kicking into overdrive. You are experiencing what seems to be a panic attack, or at the very least an overwhelming response to certain distressing stimuli.”

…No response. No sound. Will isn’t the only one feeling panicked.

“It is going to feel as if you are through running a marathon. Your body may shake, you may feel . . . Overdone with the weight of your efforts. It is a very real response, variable stimuli aside. We-” he adds to foster more ‘togetherness,’ a small attempt to show the boy he is here for him if not physically, then emotionally- 

“-must treat it as one would any physical ailment, if you are amenable to following orders for just a moment.”

. . . Still no response. He takes his chance, continuing on. 

“Breath, Will. This will slow the dizzying pace of the world down.”

The man on the floor obeys, making sure to continue past the diaphragm hiccups, small noises, and movements he can’t help from happening. After a few minutes of his breath being slowed, his heart rate following, he tries to speak again. To better explain the situation, perhaps. 

“I-” Will begins to reply, but gets stuck by the raw emotion weighing down the words. Fat, wet tears pour easily from his wide eyes. He struggles to think of anything at all, anything but being alone. He only manages a small whimper, more pointed at his knees than at the speaker.

“Stay with me, i will be there soon.”

“O-okay, okay. Please, please.” He remembers his manners. Manners are very important, he knows. If he isn’t polite, who will want to stay? 

“Please” he adds on another, the repetitive sound all he can muster.

Hannibal smiles, despite himself. 

“You’re doing very well, William. I will be there in no time at all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is mid car ride to Wills house, and realizing that the 'panic attack' his favorite agent is having was in fact / is age regression. Also, Will doesn't speak much here except for his 'echoing' of Hannibal. He's much farther into regression, but thankfully calmed down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did NOT expect any people to read this already but augh, thank you everyone! I'm a huge amateur but I have an overactive imagination so, expect more. Sorry the chapters are so short, I want to be able to update every 1-2 weeks though! plus, gives me more time to figure out wth I'm doing.
> 
> Also-? I write will as someone on the spectrum, because he did claim to be in the first season. I'll tag for that but, I'm not sure I do a great job of representation. fun fact: both people with ASD and PTSD can experience similar sensory overloads and responses to those! it's hell!

The older doctor has his foot on the gas, cruising the winding roads as fast as he can legally, or illegally manage without getting caught. His phone rests in his right hand on the wheel, admittedly an unsafe placement in terms of convince. It just looks irresponsible. Thankfully, there is never a surplus of officers on this particular strip of road at night. Though, it is becoming rather rapidly an early morning. 

It does makes handling the vehicle a little more difficult but, he can control the speaker volume easily, and the weight in his palm makes up for not being able to steady Will now himself. And besides, once he hits the highway it’s only straight onward for many miles to come.

He’s been on the road for 30 minutes now, almost half of the whole drive. Despite his best attempts to coaxe something more out of his friend, Will remains variably silent over the line. Nothing more than a few repetitious ‘thank-you’s,’ and small noises without a warrant Hannibal can see himself.

It’s likely he still is on the floor, if not still curled in on himself as well. But Hannibal is nothing if not an attentive doctor, having taken his education and practice very seriously- as a fluid state of learning for many years. 

He knows Will is likely now to be caught in the web of his own thoughts, or caught in the lack thereof. Whichever it is that ails his patient now, grounding techniques are to be employed as an alternative to staying caught in that web.

“You know, I have always admired the look of the snow in the dark of the moonlight. I can see it glistening off of my headlights now- it does bring to mind a certain whimsy, does it not?” 

Hannibal has taken to narrating his every move. Every sight, every sound. The constant narrative he thinks will provide Will with knowledge he is still there; that he still cares. Paying attention, talking with him. There for him.

Granted, it’s not physical touch, not face-to-face interaction- god knows, he can hardly tell if his friend is still awake with the maddening silence coming from the speakers. It’s something of a maw in the doctors mind, a smoke of inevitability, humming and whispering static into the confined car air. He rolls down the window, tugging his tie down slightly. He’ll put it back up when he arrives at Wolftrap, a subconscious hint that he is stable, reliable, and professional. That he is what Will needs.

“I’m going to take a turn here, and then merge onto the nearest exit. The car nearest to me looks to be under control of a possible inebriated driver and- oh, I see, she is simply elderly, how discourteous of me to assume.” 

He thinks for a moment he may hear a soft intelligible reply from the line. His right hand brings the phone back up to his ear, pressing off of speaker. 

“Perhaps I shall endeavor to censor myself a bit more, hm?”

“Endeavour.” Will replies softly, voice still vibrating with the subtle sorrow of the floors of an opera house during the grand finale. Hannibal's heart skips a beat.

“Yes, I will aim to be less . . . distasteful in my presumptions in the future- at the very least while i have a guest in my midst.” he muses, “I believe it would be the ultimate transgression to give you the impression my thoughts are limited to those of offense.”

“Endeavour.” Will says again, a little firmer. Somehow, Hannibal realizes it is not a statement, but a question.

“Endeavour.” The doctor replies, making a mental note: ‘possible echolalia, probable limited cognitive functioning at present. Avoid overwhelming stimuli.’

“You enjoy the way this word feels, Will?” he asks, testing for how the conversation should continue.

“I . . . I’m sorry.” he replies softly, panic rising almost evident in his infliction. “I’ll stop it, I can stop it. I’m sorry, please. please,”

Hannibal makes another note: ‘overuse of niceties, improper usage.’

In the softest voice he can manage, he replies steadily, “You are doing just right, William. You mustn’t say anything you do not wish to. Just the same, if you care to say it again, I would hear it a thousand times without dispute.”

More silence from the receiver. A lingering fear grips the edges of the doctors heart, pulling it down to his gut, and then -

“Endeavour. en-DE-A-vour,” Will tests the pronunciation, prolonging vowels and shortening others, “endeavo-ur. endeavor.” 

“Endeavour.” the doctor agrees, smiling to himself.

“What does it mean?”

Hannibal's mind stalls. He mulls over all he had rambled into the phone before, looking for the ‘it’ Will could be referring to before it clicks: ‘Will is asking the definition of endeavour.’ 

‘William Graham, a 34 year old man is asking the definition of ‘endeavour.’

A 34 year old man.’ 

It takes a moment to process, the situation at hand. He has read about regressive states of mind in his textbooks, possibly seen it in his patients, but never will good Will. after all, Will is an adult.

 

‘Overusing niceties in an improper way. 

. . . 

Slowly coming in and out of a nonverbal state, after a panic attack in which he claimed to ‘not know the rest,’ when confronted about his residence and age.

Anxiety skyrocketing at the possibility of being left alone. Openly forgetful of ‘older’ skillsets, driving included

. . . 

Oh.’

“William,” he takes a deep breath in, preparing to possibly upset the agents mind, “Why phone a friend this night in particular?”

The response is strained, slow, and takes awhile to create. The gears in Wills mind painstakingly try to fast forward years of experience and eloquence to save his small semblance of dignity left, to no avail. He is stuck, in the memories. In the feelings of the memories. Trying to speak, to sound unbroken feels like falling backwards off from a swing. At least now, it is calmer than before.

Even still, panic makes his breathing labored. He remembers the doctors advice, ‘in and out,’ taking his time and trying his best. Nothing comes of it. All thoughts die on his axons before they can make it to a neuron to transmit. He feels again like a burden, like a forgotten toy. Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind he is aware of being grown, he is aware of being willful and independent and so, so much better than before but tears well up again in his eyes, as he sniffs softly and finally untucks his head from his knees.

“They left me alone.”

And it was the truth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of the drive up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ChrisT I am sorry this is so short. And that nothing is happening? But hey all practice is practice. On the bright side the next chapter will have actual interaction, won't be so much long and drawn out nothing. Litty. 
> 
> It's super hard to fill the space when no one is really talking yo

Hannibal felt his heart drop to his feet at those words, “They left me alone.”

He decides immediately, unknown to himself the true depths of the declaration, that Will must never be alone again. His Will must never be alone again.

The rest of the car ride up, soon turned a crisp and clean white by the early morning flurries of snow, Hannibal made sure Will was not alone. Narrating his every move once again, he made a point to include only the most tasteful details about the drive. 

He told his boy about the first powdered precipitations as they floated down onto the sleek black of his bentley, and of how they melted where the engine kept the metal warm. Speaking with an eloquence of an experienced poet, but softly so that the agent could understand, he made sure to say how beautiful the world was - perhaps to make up for the ugliness Will had no doubt been exposed to before.

He asked questions, attempting to get Will to speak a little more if it was possible. Not of his past, but of the present. He asked how the wooden floor- he’d known it was wooden from the last visit where he had brought the agent breakfast, a nice protein scramble- looked around his feet, and asked if it made any pictures Will could think of. 

Will had replied, a little giddy, that it was reminiscent of -or, in his words- “Looks like a puppy. It has curves like floppy ears, is that right?” -and Hannibal had replied that yes, of course it was correct. Will could do no wrong.

As the younger man slowly began to slip more into the mindset of a child, though less panicked by now, the good psychiatrist attempted to work him up to his physical age. A certain practice he was inclined to think would be helpful, though not common, was to present a milestone activity of sorts for each age passed. Well, each stage is more like it. 

In the spirit of Erikson's psychosocial based developmental theory, one that the doctor was quite trustful in, he puts Will’s mentality at approximately 3-6 years of age. 

Despite fitting the ‘infancy crisis’ of fully trusting others, as Will does seem to trust him, he is not quite past the milestone of acquiring autonomy - more leaning into self-doubt, but is however far too cognitively intelligent for that approximation. He requires dependency on another person, as a 18 months - 3 years would be, and he needs many things explained to him, softly, and with grace- but has a longer attention span than a child under the age of 2. 

Still, his social skills are lacking but perhaps due to his upbringing. 

Then, Can upbringing have an effect when it mentally has not happened in its entirety? 

As a test, Hannibal has him touch different things he can safely assume may be close by- his clothes, hair, the floor, the phone- and describe how they feel. Will responds to the more “happy feelings,” as he calls them, with some form of movement only decipherable by the sound of moving fabric and creaking floors. Probable self-stimulating behaviors, typical in children, but especially in those supposed to be on the spectrum. He responds to “bad feelings” by dropping the object immediately after being told to pick it up, as well as a few noises of distrust. 

3 years old then, cognitively speaking. An infant where emotion and stimulus reaction is concerned. The prescription? Play. Play, and grounding exercises, to be safe.

Luckily, ‘I-spy’ has both.

While Hannibal wouldn’t be caught dead by his friends in the opera, or at the ballet hall, playing such a childish game in a minor snowstorm, he supposes it is dignified for the purpose. The means to a more righteous end, he supposes. His tie is already down anyhow, and no one could hear him so far away from any town. It is just a formality, friend-to-friend, patient-to-counselor.

By the time the psychiatrist has made his way to Will’s comfy little corner of nowhere, they have talked their way through several games of ispy, and possibly a few years as well. Will asks more unneeded questions than Freddie Lounds, but always listens carefully for the answers. He doesn’t understand them all.

“Is it . . . it is a bird?” he wonders, when Hannibal ‘spies’ something blue.

“This object is inside the car, William.”

“And is the object a bird inside the car?” 

“I’m not in the habit of keeping poultry in my vehicle, no.”

“Hmph.” Will pouts, “Maybe you should.” 

Hannibal smiles to himself as he pulls into the driveway, imagining his friend as an actual child, how wide-eyed and curious he must be about the world and everything in it. He imagines the porcelain skinned boy would have asked a million questions to those he trusted in- he certainly does now. A prodigy in school, with an outstanding ability to empathize and comprehend beyond his years. He must have had a hard time fitting in, the nervous little thing.

He wonders as well, how exactly someone could try to shut that marvelous child down. 

As he fastens his tie back into a perfect windsor knot, and tugs his jacket over his shoulders, turning the keys out of the ignition -slowly, of course, he won’t stand to strip the lock- a streak of possession snakes its way his spine. 

The past is of no matter, he is here now- and whoever hurt Will is not in the picture. Not that he can see.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal arrives at Will's house, and is able to finally take care of him a bit while he's (probably halfway or more) regressed. Cute times!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the formatting is wonky with paragraphs and all that, I'm posting from my phone! Will probably go back and edit so the flow is better.

 

 

\---

 

Hannibal stands on the snow-painted front porch and is surrounded from the moment he arrives to the first creaking wooden step by Will’s pack. The dogs seem to know not to be louder than necessary. They silently encircle the visitor, pawing at his crisp-black pant leg with damp paws and loose fur, every mutt already covered by fat flakes of snow. The doctor makes a mental note to have his clothing taken to the dry cleaner later, files it away somewhere deep in his mind palace, and allows the dogs to carry on their inspection as not to risk making too much unneeded sound. A small sacrifice, really.

 He pulls out his mobile, catching one glove between his sharp teeth and pulling it off, beginning to message that he has finally made the drive up. The bright screen looks dull in comparison to the white surrounding him, even duller when his hot breath veils the thing in dew.

 Although he is sure that Williams sensitivity to sensory input has already told him he was there- If the slammed car door was a grassy mole to Hannibal, closed in dexterity to finally assess the situation in person, then it was damn near Mt.Vesuvius to Will, erupting and spewing lava all over the lawn- Hannibal sends the message nevertheless, as it is permission to open the door.

 Permission, which may be important for Will to be given.

 He tries to keep in mind the nuances of regression he’s read in textbooks or less tasteful online forums, having come across the subject on accidental click-bait within true crime blogs, as well as his knowledge on sensory overload- if that is to happen. He should be prepared. He should be prepared for anything.

 

 He tethers his emotions away for a moment, breathing deeply in the crisp air.

The dissonance is a childhood friend. It has helped him through soviet soldiers, orphanages, dying patients under his scalpel, and now, this. His second nature is to be heartless, to an extent. A shark could never hunt with an awful regard towards its prey; A doctor can never save a life without having a slightly troubling apathy towards it. It is simply what works.

 A necessary evil, if heedlessness can rightfully be called wrong. No anxiety means to have no doubts.

 Still, he grips the orange in his coat pocket for a moment before adjusting his gait, making himself taller than he is, hands neatly by his sides.

 

 As the screened door slowly opens, pushed by a larger dog- Winston was his name if Hannibal remembers correctly- his hopes of being entirely divided fade away with the snow on his burgundy overcoat. It nearly takes his breath away.

 Will, still-watery eyes to his bare feet, Botticelli curls framing his chiseled face, is led by his newest hound through the threshold. On his slightly leaning frame, appearing smaller than ever as he tries to maintain some sort of closeness to himself, rests his crumpled clothes and buttons undone. His grey undershirt is covered by a mangled blue flannel, and his belt is slightly loose. On anyone else, in any situation prior, it would exhibit a man too sloppy for Hannibal to bear looking again. Here, however, it exudes an innocence that is hard to name: A tragic undertone of the unkempt, demanding to be cared for, and a cherubic indication of a halo unseen.

 He is the brightest, most fragile thing the snow has touched. Hannibal softens, just slightly.

 

 Will nods at the doctor, sheepish smile working its way onto his lips. He looks both certain and unsure at once, eyes twinkling with excitement and residual anxiety. He doesn’t say anything, but points to the other side of the door, motioning for the man to come in, and Hannibal does as he’s told.

 Will sits on the floor of the living room, towards the back corner, and buries his face in the thick sunshiny fur of his dog. His hands absentmindedly work through the knots, preening and relishing in the feeling of soft hide.

 In a soft, sure voice Hannibal asks, “How can I be of assistance at this time?”

 Will seems unbothered by the noise, and looks thoughtful for a moment before answering:

“I don’t know.”

 

 Knowing it is a typical response of those on the spectrum, his ‘I don’t know,’ Hannibal also is aware that it doesn’t simply mean Will is clueless. An “I don’t know” from a child on the spectrum can mean many, many things, none of which are akin to idiocy. It may mean that his mind is having trouble catching up to his feelings, or that his processing is muddled by input. It may mean that he needs another moment, or a more decisive question to answer. Vacuities aren’t always welcome when everything seems so general and blurred.

 

 He poses his questions then as well as he can, leaving room for Will to make his boundaries known. The man continues raking through Winston’s fur, humming slightly.

"Will you prefer I speak, or stay quiet for you?” he asks, taking on “We may communicate by other means if need be.”

Will takes his time, seeming to have forgotten a question was asked before shooting back “what was that?”

 When Hannibal opens his mouth to answer, Will interrupts: “Wait, I heard. It took a- just takes a minute sometimes. You can talk.”

 “Very well, then.” the doctor answers, “Can you tell me what you are feeling?” he tries to gage Will’s mentality in a less subtle way.

 “Hungry.” Will looks up at him, “Very hungry. And my eyes hurt.” he jokes, only half seriously. It may lighten the mood after all, bring him back to his usual sarcastic, well-meaning self. He still feels like a child but, he should at least try to be an adult while Hannibal is here, right?

 . . .

 “-And what is it that you’re in the mood to have, my dear boy?”

 

Well, that hope’s out the window.

Will feels himself getting just a bit smaller at that, if he wasn’t completely gone already.

 “Well…” he trails off.

 “-I trust you have ample ingredients in the kitchen I may work with, if you’re agreeable?”

Will fiddles with his dog’s fur, and the feeling of his own fingers rubbing together like a bow on a violin. Something did come to mind, but...

He takes a minute to try and think of something more adult before answering in a noticeably smaller voice:

“Cookies?”

 

Hannibal looks amused, if not slightly concerned. His eyebrows crease at the middle, his upper lip tugging down just the slightest bit from fighting an embarrassingly domestic smile.

Will only sounds like he hopes he won’t get screamed at for suggesting it. That, as well, makes him even farther from the sense of being grown he’s only barely grasping at.

Hannibal wishes Will would eat something healthier, more nutritious, especially after tonight's ordeal. -But then, inmates on death row always do get their comfort food. His will is much more deserving than them.

 

Just look at his face.

Maybe a little sugar wouldn’t hurt.

He’s easing too well into this new protective position, possibly.

 

Will, being the empath he is, notices Hannibal’s expression changes within seconds, and recognizes it as a steady compliance. Then, the child in him recognizes it as eagerness.

“You want to make cookies” Will grins, moving his hands a little above Winston, “You do!”

Will get up from his spot on the floor and hurriedly looks around the kitchen, followed by his dogs.

“We have the ingre- we have the ingredi-” oh, what was that big word again? To hell with being an adult.

“-We have everything for them!” he says excitedly, reaching up to grab an already-messy apron from the very top of the pantry closet. The bottom of this rumpled undershirt rides up, and he doesn’t bother to fix it. His guest has the urge to come over and straighten it out or, even better, get him into something new.

 

Hannibal follows behind, as slow as he can try to be.  
“William,” he says in a stern but caring tone, not wanting to come across as angry, “I don’t think cookies are a suitable dinner.”

Will’s face falls a bit, and then looks stubborn. “I can make them.” he says, sticking his lower lip out slightly. “I’m good at it.”

“I’m sure you’re a magnificent chef, however,” Hannibal says, taking the apron from wills hands and folding it, placing it aside onto the countertop, “You need to eat something else first. It is very important to stay healthy, no?”

Will look like he’s pouting, and maybe just a little hurt. His eyes trace the ground, his hands worrying the hem of his flannel.

“You won’t have the energy to bake if all you’re eating is sugar, Will.”

“But i wan-”

Hannibal shoots him a stern stare, with his posture straight, and suit still impeccable. He came here to look after Will, whatever that may entail. Including setting rules. He keeps his distance, however, not needing to say anything else with the weight of his stare being what it is.

And, just maybe, he’s enjoying this.

Will slumps after a moment, looking defeated. He goes quiet, still fiddling with his clothes.

 

“Eat something of substance first. Then, if you’re still hungry, we can make cookies.” Hannibal says.

“As many as i want?”

“Within reason.” Wills eyes light up-

This reminds Hannibal of taking care of his sister, when he had one. She always loved baking cakes or stealing them from the kitchen. He did have to reprimand her, more than once, but- he always had a soft spot for her mischief.

“A million.” The voice separates him from his thoughts, Will’s deviant smile evident in the tone.

“Pardon?”

“We’re making a million.” He states, matter-of-factly, and oh, how his eyes twinkle. A lot like Mischa’s, when she would hide a biscuit under her dress. It’s hard to deny either of them a thing.

Hannibal is, he realizes, is enjoying being a caretaker again. If only for the sake of helping a friend.

“You said ‘as many as I want.’” Will says, chin tilted far up, as if he is not nearly the same height as his guest.

“We’ll see.” Hannibal says, “Now what would you like to eat?”

Will looks troubled by the question, thinking for a moment on what he might want, or what he has in his kitchen. He’s lost.

“I don’t like many foods.” he says, chewing his lip. “I do like cookies.”

 

Hannibal takes it as a good sign that if, while still slightly regressed, he’s able to be open about his needs. It’s much better than the crying from before, and it should be encouraged. It may help ‘older’ Will to know younger him should have been able to ask for what he wanted.

“Is there anything besides confectionaries you could stand?” Hannibal asks, taking the liberty of opening the fridge - all that’s there is some fish, asparagus, and a carton of milk.

“None of that, please.” Will scrunches his nose up, “too bad.”

 

Hannibal, not sure what ‘bad’ means, only nods in agreement before moving to the pantry.

Will elaborates, “Asparagus smells like a mix of gas station and an old man wearing cologne. And it’s stringy. I don’t like strings.”

“You must have a very acute sense of smell, then. My condolences.” Hannibal opens the cabinet doors, rummaging through empty space.

Will takes his words as a compliment. “I can hear a lot, too. It gets difficult sometimes. Did you know electricity can sing?”

“And how is that?”

“Loud. I’ll show you-” He hums at a high pitch along with what Hannibal assumes must be the fridge, as it’s the only electronic on at the moment. “-See?”

 

“My friends used to say I was lying, but I know I’m right. I saw a doctor once, and she told me I could hear it because of my mind.” He looks a bit uncomfortable at that, while proud, shaking his hair in his face.

It seems he isn’t sure if he should start to tear himself down for it, before someone else tries to for him.

 

Hannibal is aware that ‘hearing electricity’ is very much symptomatic of a person on the spectrum, with their enhanced perception of the world around them. Everything is louder, more, including the air itself.

Not everyone, of course, feels this, but a majority of those with ASD experience this phenomenon. Some feel less of everything, though. It all depends. There are a great many ways to feel the world, and not one of them is necessarily wrong. Only unique.

If Will’s current attempts to hide his face while mentioning it is of any indication, though, people around him didn’t take kindly to this knowledge. That must be amended, with time.

 

“You must be quite a clever boy, then, for the air to long to serenade you-”

 He finds some bread, crackers, peanut butter, coffee grounds, a loose sugar packet, and an unopened jar of jelly in the cabinet. Does Will really not keep any food around?

 “-Perhaps it is attempting to instruct you to buying better groceries.” He smiles. Banter does, after all, increase familiarity.

 Will looks like he’s inflated a bit at the praise, though his face flushes more at the jest. 

“Do you think it really means something?” he asks, “The air?”

 The doctor thinks for a moment, before resolving that his patient most certainly should be prescribed more praise. What better to annul past indiscretions than present commandments?

 

 “Humans devised language to properly convey our needs, or our emotions. Before the creation of language, we had gestures, noises, different forms of articulation.” Hannibal says, scanning his patient from the side, who seems enraptured by his words.

 “The same inventive hands which established prose and it’s physicality must, too, have created the electronics that sing. It is only right, then, that the language was passed on through their wires and plugs.” He grabs the bread from the cabinet, pulling it down.

 “Just the same as God taught man at genesis, we must have taught the air to speak.” He takes the peanut butter down, too. “It takes a very special mind to decipher the words of the atmosphere.”

 He looks straight at will, narrowly avoiding unwanted eye contact. “What a cunning boy you are, to be already Intune with its rhythm. I’ve no doubt in its choice to confide within you.”

 Will looks like he’s simply gleaming with pride, and unsure of what to do with it. Unsure of how to take the compliment. He smiles at his shoes for the older man, trying not to bite his lip. His feet do a tiny dance, shuffling closer together as his rocks a bit in place. Hannibal sees the movement the same as the biggest, most radiant grin.

 

Giddy, and more childlike than before, Will is uncertain how to proceed. He does what feels right, and that’s enough.

 

“I could eat a PB&J.” He says, eyes to the counter. He’s still rocking on his feet, side to side and back and forth. “It’s a good food,” he amends, “With the crust’s cut off.”

Hannibal, though far more used to extravagant, time-consuming cooking, is happy now to oblige. He does take note of wills sudden shift in tone, when asking for something he needs.  
He wonders briefly if his eagerness to bake cookies was only because he knew he could help, rather than allowing someone to do it for him, as a child should.

 

"Are there any other specificities of which I should be aware?” he questions, just to be sure.

“Well . . .” Will trails off, rocking slowing down in favor of worrying his lip between his teeth.

“Anything at all, my dear boy. It is no concern of mine the level of need.” He insists, making sure Will knows he can ask for whatever he wants. This, too, is important when amending for past neglect.

Will answers, a little softly, and unsure, “I like to have it in triangles, please.” He tries to make eye contact, failing for the discomfort of it. His eyes flick back down, a little ashamed. “-if that’s alright.”

 

Hannibal smiles softly, to show will that yes, of course it’s alright. He should never be afraid to ask. He shouldn’t have to conform to neurotypical gestures like eye contact just to do so, not at the expense of his own comfort.

“Two, or four?”

“Four.” He rocks back on his heel, “Four is good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah this one is long, ye? I had difficulty actually writing the interactions so, may be a bit stale but aye I tried. I imagine will during this to be more halfway regressed or, regressed at an older age? if that makes sense?  
> I figured I owed you all something a bit cute after the first chapter was just pure self indulgent angst lmao. But i'm having fun writing it so, i'm alright with how it is, despite it being out of character. I'll blame Will's on being all age-y, and Hannibals i'll accept as my own fault lol.
> 
> Let me know what you think! or, if you feel helpful, more ideas? idk where this is going because its mostly just for me lol.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is like my second attempt to write anything, ever, so. Yep! Criticism and ideas are appreciated. PS this will never involve daddykink of any kind, but caregiver/regresser dynamics will be used in an entirely nonsexual, therapeutic way.


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